Part I: America

It’s hard to say exactly how it happened, my becoming a moustache aficionado, that is. It’s not like I just woke up one morning with this handsome bastard on my upper lip and thought to myself, “Wow, sexy!” No, the idea grew slowly, charming its way into my heart.

I guess it all started with a beard, or rather, laziness.

Being a man, there are certain things that become routine, like shaving, for instance. But if you neglect to do this for a week or so, you’ll find your well on your way to Mountain-manhood. Cave-manitude? No, we’ll stick with mountain-manhood. Give it a few more weeks and they’ll call you “Grizzly Adams.” But then all it needs is a little trim to clean it up and congratulations — you’ve got yourself a beard!

The beard got me through the chilly New England weather like I was growing a thick fur coat before hibernating. But somewhere along the line I caught my reflection in the mirror and had an epiphany.

“What if I…” I held my hand over my chin, trying to envision a new look — something revolutionary. An impulse caught me and I grabbed the electric razor and went at it like Edward Scissorhands, buzzing and clipping away. When the hair settled in the bathroom sink, lo and behold, The Moustache. Glorious.

At first I was nervous; what would my friends and family think of my new look? Would they make fun of me, say I look like a cheap 70’s pornstar or a lousy Burt Reynolds impersonator?

No, I thought. I must adopt the confident mantle of a mustachioed man, now. 

I stomped proudly through social situations, moustache held high like a war flag. I mingled, schmoozed, partied, wheeled-and-dealed with the best of them, demanding respect — “I am a man,” I’d shout in my best Ron Burgundy. “I am a man with a moustache! Acknowledge me!”

Slowly but surely, I made strides in my quest for moustache prominence and rose above my peers. And it was good.

Part II: Taiwan

Staring down at my moustache in the bathroom sink, I ask myself how it came to this. Were did we go wrong? Everything was going so well.

Three days ago I arrived in Taipei, Taiwan and hit the ground running and I haven’t stopped moving in something like 36 hours — I’m running on empty with all pistons firing and pushing the psychic redline on a freeway of tastes, smells, sights and sounds, bordering on sensory overload. Through it all, I keep hearing Shirley translate from Mandarin things like, “she says you are very handsome,” or “she said you’d look so handsome if you shaved,” and “he’s so handsome…it’s a shame he won’t shave.”

Day three: I wake up, shower and shave.

Was it Shirley’s secret agenda to clean me up? She had warned me before we left that it would make a better first impression if I were clean-shaven and dapper.

“Nonesense!” I scoffed. “I’m an American with a moustache! They’ll simply think I’m some kind of badass cowboy,” I assured her.

Sitting on a shaky bus, I mull over the social asteroid that abruptly ended my moustachezoic era. Where had it hit and how could the impact have been so apocalyptic? The answer, of course, was: my pride.

How many Asian girls have to suggest, with varying degrees of subtly, that if you shave you’ll be more handsome, before you break down and do it?

Then I learned of the Chinese custom of “face.” In the college town where I come from, it’s considered cool to be as disheveled and carefree as possible, so I had no real concept of going out of my way to look my best — that was business reserved for weddings, funerals, job interviews and court dates. In my small town and surrounding community, the more you look like a grunge/hippy-hipster-hybrid, who can’t be bothered with things like hygiene and not smoking pot, the cooler you are. So, now I had something to think about — not looking like I just rolled out of bed after a bender? Curious, indeed.

In Taiwan, people stare at foreigners. It’s inevitable. You’re a minority and you look weird. But foreigners with facial hair frighten the Asian children more than the average foreigner; it’s a strange kind of curious-fear though, not abject terror, thank god. Adults stare, too. But when you make eye contact and they realize you’re looking back, you can get a reaction — sometimes they’ll laugh, or look away and hurry about their business. Kids will point, laugh and scurry off, and teenagers will size you up, as teenagers everywhere will do.

The larger city of Taipei doesn’t hold the same jaw-drop curiosity of foreigners; they have Hollywood flicks, Orlando Bloom endorsing Toyota and George Clooney hawking expensive watches. But when you get into the hill towns, you become something akin to a reality TV star i.e. no real talent, but plenty of celebrity status.

The most poignant example of my new found celebrity occurred while touring the hill towns in the north-east part of the island. There, crowds of teenage students clad in track-suit uniforms, looking like b-boys and b-girls, loiter around an arcade. Upon seeing me, they chirp with curiosity, pointing and practicing their English.

“Hiii,” one girl says to me. She looks to be about sixteen and is wearing a powder blue and light pink track suit, just like her classmates.

“Ni-hao,” I say. She giggles.

“Where are you from?” Another asks in practiced English.

“America,” I answer.

“Ohhh, America,” she says. “Can we have picture?”

I oblige them and am quickly surrounded by female students all waving the peace sign and making chic faces with pouted lips. A teenage boy kneels in the foreground of the picture in a b-boy stance. I just stand there with a goofy grin wondering what they’ll do with a picture of a strange, lanky American. They’re quick to thank me and scamper off, peeking back as I walk away.

I wonder what would’ve happened if I hadn’t shaved the moustache; would they have recoiled in horror or would it have made my star-power even brighter?

As great as having a moustache was, shaving it was something I had to do to appease my fans. I’ve learned that immersing yourself in another culture requires some compromise and an understanding of social  customs. To get the most out of an experience, learn the nuances of the culture, take a shot at learning the language if only to order a beer. In my experience, even a simple display of effort will endear you to the natives of that culture. Furthermore, when you’re a 6′2″ American guy, you already stand out in a crowd of Asian people; it doesn’t take much to be unique.

So, I left my moustache in Taiwan, for better or for worse.

Shave face to save face.